


Blue

by koakuma_tsuri



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Angst, Established Secret Relationship, M/M, angsty sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 14:03:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1269088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koakuma_tsuri/pseuds/koakuma_tsuri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Textgate Incident, Compton was the catalyst for Alastair bringing Kevin back into the side to face India</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Playing with Canon here, but not enough to call it AU?

Alastair notices it immediately. The moment Compton walks in. He detects the scent in the air like a starved man and it sets his heart at a speed that makes him feel lightheaded.  It’s what Kevin wears. The cologne was the last thing Alastair remembered at night and the first thing he sensed come morning. And now it makes him want to gag. Too many memories he doesn’t want to remember hit him like an avalanche and he sits after shaking Nick’s hand, determinedly breathing through his mouth.

There’s a small mercy in how different their voices are. The accent is the same, of course, but Kevin’s is so much softer, almost unassuming, in contrast to what he is with a bat in his hand. A gentleness contrasting the sort of things he is capable of off-field.

Alastair had thought himself safe: that he would finally be able to get over Kevin’s betrayal. Able to get over the separation he enforced, that in the dead of night he finds himself thinking might have been a mistake. But it wasn’t. What Kevin had done is inexcusable and childish and there is no way as Vice Captain Alastair could’ve condoned it. He had thought he was now able to move on, draw a line under what he and Kevin had and forget it.

But each time he forgets and breathes through his nose, he is mocked and tormented. There is no _possible_ way that he could pick up the cologne so strongly when Compton is sat across the table. He can almost _taste_ it: that chemical tang that clung to Kevin’s neck and he mentally relives what the man would do to him as he licked and nibbled that fragrant skin.

Alastair clenches his jaw and tries to apply the same discipline he does in batting. To empty his mind and concentrate purely on the moment, but it doesn’t work. Instead he’s churning up ideas in his head to stop Compton’s selection before it goes official. There’s no way he can move on with this man around. He must look visibly distracted because Andy glances at him sharply from his left. The Coach knows what’s going through his mind because those stern lips twist downwards.

Alastair is the Captain now. He’s supposed to rise above his own personal struggles and feelings and do what’s best for the team and his country. Nick Compton is what they’ve chosen is best for the Country. Alastair will just have to find a way to get over himself, just like he had to before.

He’ll displace and forget. There will be countless other men he’ll encounter in his life who wear that cologne and he can’t allow himself to be a slave to Kevin’s memory like a teenage girl hung up on the guy who stood her up. He’s better than that.

-

Nick’s a good looking man, in every way. He’s a little like Pietersen in how he holds himself, and from a certain angle their faces are similar, but with blue eyes and sandy brown hair it’s enough for Alastair not to linger on and lament their similarities. He’s confident and cocky in more than just that South African sort of way and were this another life, or maybe 3 years in the past or 3 years in the future, Alastair would pursue him.

He doesn’t know if Nick knows about Kevin. It’s not something the team talk about, which Alastair is grateful for. There’s no _support_ or _sympathy_ for what he’s going through, so everything can just be swept under a rug and ignored.

He buries himself in training and developing a working partnership with his new fellow opener but every time he breathes in around him it’s like a heady poison a consumes him in a reverie of need and doubt.

Had he really needed to end it with Kevin? Couldn’t they have just fought over what happened and then gotten over it because their relationship did not involve the team, and barely involved the cricket? Had Alastair even done the right thing by England in not suggesting reintegrating Pietersen?

Instead of just being reminded of him, Alastair finds himself missing Kevin each time he’s around Nick. And it’s as bad as it is in the middle of the night when there’s nothing to distract him, because there’s the _accent_ , and the fact that some things Compton comes out with would not seem all too alien from Kevin. Unavoidable things that drive him insane.

Alastair misses the laughter and the quips, and the squabbles they had that would turn to bitter-tinged trysts that they would always end with kisses and the following morning, Kevin wouldn’t apologise but be so tender towards him that it was like the words had been spoken.

He misses the _sex_. He hasn’t had any since he was last with Kevin, the morning before he found out about the derogatory texts sent. He hasn’t wanted to, not with anyone else. Even his once-usual partners garner no appeal and Alastair had given up on the idea of experiencing pleasure for a while, but now those memories drift through and are thrilling and so delightful it makes him hate that part of himself again.

The memory of strong hands on his waist and stubble rasping his neck; the weight of him on his back; the accented moans in his ear and the force of penetration. Alastair finds himself increasingly sitting beside Compton thinking, inhaling with his eyes closed, Kevin’s really here. Then he catches himself and scrubs his hand on his jaw in frustration and focuses his very being into every word Andy’s saying.

But then he’s out in the middle again, opposite the blonde South African and drinking in the sight of him. The hands, his dark facial hair and figure. He hasn’t got the power or the reckless charisma, but he’s got the skill, the determination and the confidence as he hits a ball.

But Alastair holds back. He averts his eyes. He tries to pick faults and tries to find things about Compton that repel him. And he rationalises it as that maybe getting involved with his teammates will always be a bad idea. Sure, most of the time casual sex remained casual, but when it doesn’t he falls hard and hits the ground harder. And someone like Compton, so similar yet not to Kevin, he simply cannot trust himself with.

It’s easier to admit than the truth he denies. That he’s not looking to replace Kevin, but keep him.

He doesn’t need Kevin anymore.

Alastair holds back until he simply can’t anymore. When the TV replays the Oval Test of the 2005 Ashes – that innings that ignited an utterly consuming _hunger_ for Kevin Pietersen and Alastair reflects on all that he’s lost. A lover, a friend and a teammate. Yet the infatuation lingers. He watches Kevin chase his century with the same fervour as before; feels the same burning need. Alastair still wishes to be with the man yet he _can’t_.

He lies on his bed, his body yearning torturously and before he really knows what he’s doing, his hand is around his cock. It’s easy to stroke himself and watch Kevin play. He’s done it countless times. This’ll be the last. He swears.

Sensation comes in waves and his eyes fall heavy, allowing him to hear nothing but his own heavy breaths and the voices of commentators applauding the young Pietersen’s ability to control the ball and manipulate the bowlers. Yet orgasm always feels a step too far away. And the faster he pumps his shaft, the faster it gets away.

Eyes flicking open, Alastair focuses completely on Kevin: his stance, his face and the jubilation as he hits his first Test 100. He jerks himself frantically, _forcing_ himself to come and does so with a choked moan. But he feels _nothing_ , like it had never even happened. Only the warmth seeping between his fingers and over-sensitivity testify otherwise.

Inhaling shakily, he throws his head back against the headboard and hisses that breath out with a clenched jaw. He feels disgusted at his own emptiness. How had Kevin stolen his ability to feel _pleasure_? Like some obsession with sickening strength, like some sort of spell cast over him… Alastair wants to be free. He’s desperate to _feel_ again.

His feet carry him to Compton’s door. There’s a reason beyond that lingering attraction to the man himself: the thought that maybe his mind could be tricked into believing it is Kevin again, but it’s not and somehow he would be able to work back to having sex with whomsoever he chooses.

Nick answers the door after a minute or two and looks surprised to see his new Captain stood in a plain T-shirt and jersey shorts. The room behind him is dark and quiet, lit only by the bedside lamp. He offers a smile and a greeting, and leans against the door frame. He’s not wearing a shirt, only in tight, white, designer underwear. Alastair rakes his gaze down and bites his lip. He is similarly built to Kevin, muscular in all the right places and smooth-chested and when Alastair isn’t looking at his face that _desire_ he hasn’t felt for so long creeps into every cell.

 “Would you fuck me?” he asks, staring intently at Nick’s pronounced clavicle and _smelling_ that damn cologne from him. He fears that one glimpse of blue eyes and blonde hair will put him off.

Compton scoffs, bewildered, and chuckles like he thinks it’s some joke. Perhaps someone has said something about Alastair’s former behaviour, or made some comment to him but Alastair really doesn’t care. It’s a yes or no answer. If he gets the latter, he’s gone and condemned to wallow in misery. He’s done it once, he can do it again.

“Would you fuck me?” he repeats in a sterner tone, otherwise unmoving.

“Yeah,” he leans against the wall exuding all the sort of confidence Alastair imagines he tries on with women. He’s immune to it though, but maybe would humour the man were he in the mood. But he’s not.

If Nick had any intention of extrapolating, or maybe inquiring if it was just hypothesis, he doesn’t get a chance to. Alastair curls one hand around the South African’s neck and pulls himself closer, closing his eyes as he makes contact for a needy kiss. Surprised but not off put, Nick tentatively grasps his waist and guides him into the room.

The door slams shut behind them and Alastair breaks the kiss to frantically pull his shirt off. When he leans forwards again, the kiss is harder but Compton is forgiving. Like he doesn’t know what to do. Like he doesn’t know what role he’s supposed to take. Alastair is the Captain and he is new to the Test squad: Nick thinks subservience is expected of him. Alastair growls; once upon he would have been glad to top but it’s not what he’s here for. It’s not what he wants anymore.

Kevin would seize control. Kevin would see his desperation and drive him further into it. Kevin would see his need to be rendered to pure feeling and take and keep him there until they are both satisfied. Nick simply kisses back, allowing the bites and the scratches as they make their way over to the bed.

“I want you to _fuck_ me,” he gripes, grabbing Nick by the waistband of his shorts to yank him into him. He can feel himself getting hard and is numbly surprised when he opens his eyes, glaring straight into those pretty grey-blues and finds himself still needing.

“Show mercy, Cap,” the man laughs and palms down his shoulders. “I’m a little rusty.”

And he is. It becomes obvious to Alastair that Nick hasn’t had sex with a guy since he was at school. He still moves like a schoolboy, inexperienced in how to _touch_ and simply jumping into things without a care for arousal. Foreplay is awkward and clinical, oddly more like exploration as Nick cautiously reacclimatises to another’s male form. Alastair doesn’t trust him to prepare him and takes care of the job himself with the cheap and foul-feeling lubricant Nick has to offer. The South African lays on the bed beside him, stroking his condom-sheathed shaft to the show. Alastair watches his body:  the languid movements of his hand and it’s almost – _almost_ – like one of the first times with Kevin. But he was a hands-on learner, and only had to watch Alastair’s pleasured face as he loosened himself for a few minutes before _he_ wanted to do the pleasing.

When Alastair withdraws his fingers, he immediately shifts to straddle Nick’s hips and grinds against him, foolishly hoping to ignite some deeply hidden dominance that appears to simply not exist. Alastair doesn’t want control… but it seems to be the only way in which he’ll get that roughness and edge that he always had with Kevin.

“Are you going to lay down?” the blonde asks with a wry little smile that isn’t endearing in the slightest. He just won’t fuck like Kevin… Alastair can’t risk it.

“No,” he replies and leans down onto the flick the bedside light off. The darkness is by far the greatest comfort he’s felt in a long time. Without that thick blonde hair and the blue eyes and the slight difference in jaw shape, the hands on his waist _could_ be Kevin’s; the cock pressing eagerly against his backside _could_ be Kevin’s.

Alastair sits back up, knees spread wide, and rolls his head back. He can smell his lover, and in his mind’s eye sees him with breathtaking clarity. The excited smile on that face and dark eyes hazy with arousal; his well-formed chest already a little damp and moving to a rhythm like that they hadn’t set yet. Kevin would clutch him, grasp him and guide him, thrusting against his bottom teasingly before pushing his way inside. Alastair sighs, smiling to himself and rocks back against that erection he physically feels.

He reaches back blindly, holding it still and lowers himself down onto it. He releases a moan deep in his throat, enjoying the sensation of fullness, of being so close to Kevin again at last.

“Can we—?”

“Shut up,” Alastair barks, brusquely and with pure venom. His eyes are jammed shut, rejecting reality. It’s not Compton. The illusion is not broken. He lowers himself down to his forearms so that he can bury his face between Nick’s neck and shoulder, surrounded and consumed by that damn scent. “Just, _say nothing_.”

As soon as he’s able, Alastair sets a quick and demanding pace. The strain burns his muscles in the best kind of way and he moans and gasps, finally _feeling_. Similarly pleasured sounds are breathed into his ear, in that accent he loves, and stubble rubs against the soft skin underneath it. Kevin always did it to drive him mad, and it’s just one more block Alastair uses to strengthen his fantasy.

For the first time in a long time, he feels his orgasm stirring and drawing him in. Nick grasps tightly to his thighs, rubbing his thumbs into the tense muscles and moans Alastair’s name quietly. Hardly the calling and euphoric cries the Captain had with Pietersen, and that dissimilar tone to their voice is like a scream in Alastair’s ear and he pulls himself up, hoping to distance himself again with that rationality in him that reminds him that this is _Nick Compton_ he’s riding.

With his palms flat on Nick’s smooth chest, Alastair presses his chin to his collarbone and sucks in heavy breaths.  He hears himself muttering things that aren’t meant to be said, at least not to Nick. If he hears the petnames, and the confessions then he respectfully says nothing. Alastair doesn’t want to contemplate what questions will come after this. He devotes himself to the orgasm he knows is about to burst and wraps one hand around his cock to make sure he gets there.

He comes with Kevin’s name on his tongue, and throws his head back, gasping that single word over and over again as he feels Nick finish inside him. They rock together, working down for a few moments, catching their breath and remaining in a comfortable silence.

But the moment Nick’s cognisant he reaches to flick the lamp back on. Any good feeling Alastair has is chased away like a hunted fox the moment he sees that face and the bemusement upon it. And the knowledge of what he has just done. More than just using a teammate, it’s the fact that he tried to _replace_ his lover. He knows what’s coming from Nick next. That question, a chuckle and disbelief, maybe even a little indignity.

_“Kevin? As in Kevin Pietersen?”_

He jumps up, not even _caring_ for the discomfort of the sudden withdrawal, and grabs his clothes before Compton has the chance to utter it.

“Alastair—” he calls, just sitting up and watches dazed and confused as his Captain frantically pulls on his shorts and scurries from the room.

Alastair slams the door to his bedroom and slides down the back of it. He had _felt_ and it was beautiful… and now the numbness sets back in. The terror of being alone because it seems like he sent a massive part of himself away. For good. He stares out of the window, the curtains of which he never got round the shutting, and recalls how often he and Kevin would lay in bed, staring out at the world from every country, every hotel they travelled to. He recalls the things he felt then, the vivid emotion, and the _happiness_ of being able to share himself entirely with someone again.

Is this torment truly worth it? Can he give up all the things he’s come to love over an incident that didn’t really involve him? Yes, Kevin’s behaviour was infantile and intolerable, but some part of him understands that Kevin takes indignity to the heart and sees it as a personal attack. He lashes out without thinking. Yet Alastair can’t justify what has been done… only understand how to not make it happen again.

It’s now his job as a Captain to control Kevin should he choose to.

He thinks about it. He thinks about it when he’s in the shower, washing away all traces of the tryst with Compton, he thinks about it when he lies in bed staring at the shadow-cast ceiling. He thinks about it all night.

If he’s to go to India and expect to win, he needs the best team he can get. Compton might be the best choice for opening, he doesn’t doubt that, but his middle order… he needs that powerhouse; the assurance that if he messes up, or Compton doesn’t deliver or things don’t go the way of the reliable Trott and Bell, things won’t fall apart.

If he can rein Kevin in and keep him contented, and therefore maintain a healthy dressing room, then he’s got added support within it. He’s got an intelligent man who’s been playing for longer than him able to help out but not dominate. Then, outside of the dressing room, he’s got the emotional support if things don’t go his way… and the distraction.

And Alastair won’t have to endure nights like this. A cold bed, lonely and silent. He’ll have warm, strong arms around him, holding him close and comfortable. He’ll be able to jump out of bed with a smile on his face rather than slide out and skulk around.

If he’s happy, he performs well, like Australia 2010/11. Batting with Kevin drives him to do great things… Kevin makes him happy. Alastair sighs, drawing his arms tight to his chest as he rolls onto his side. The view out of the window is not impeded by spiky black hair and a tattooed shoulder.

From the far right corner, the sky fades to pink as the sun starts to rise. They’re not doing anything today. A few of the guys who live locally will be heading back home. The others will probably wander around the city. The hotel will be devoid of his teammates… Alastair chews his bottom lip and reaches for his phone that he left on the bedside table.

It’s the perfect time to talk to Kevin. See what he feels – if he wants to rejoin the team. And see if he still feels the same about _everything else_. If he does, then Alastair’s decision is simple and made. England needs its greatest batsman. And he needs Kevin.

He had never been able to delete Pietersen’s number from his contacts. He had tried once, but his finger had hovered impotent over the delete key. Doing so just felt far too _final_. Ridiculous, considering that the previous day he had told him it was over. But it was one thing saying something, and another writing it down.

Alastair doesn’t want to tell Kevin his intentions over a text message. There’s still a part of him that loves to play with the South African, and hopes the feeling is mutual – after all, Kevin had looked distressed at being told to leave him alone. So he keeps it short. Enigmatic.

_Room 226, 12:30_

He sends it without giving himself time to reassess and bites his lips. Kevin’s usually glued to his phone, so when no reply comes within two minutes, even a curt _fuck you_ , his heart sinks and he sets the phone against the lamp and rolls onto his back.

He wonders if Kevin will even respond. What does it look like? He’s crawling back looking for sex, or grovelling because he’s finally realised what a mistake he’s made, or that he’s a captain looking to rein in his best player?

Even an hour’s sleep never claims him and in the end, when he can hear bodies stomping up and down the corridor outside, he heaves himself up. There’s no message on his phone. He keeps on glancing at it as he dresses, always hoping. He dresses in the tight jeans Kevin liked to run his hands over, and the loose shirt he liked to run his hands under, always hoping. Yet nothing. Alastair neatens his room regardless, opening windows and throwing out empty water bottles.

Just after noon, there’s a knock at the door. Alastair’s overcome with a smile, relief and all but dashes to the door. It’s just like Kevin to be early, to catch him unexpected. A small part of him comments on the ordinary knock – not that triple _it’s me_ knock they concocted – and perhaps that means Kevin’s accepted that they’re over. That now they’re just teammates as  
Alastair is with everyone else. He can change that. They can get back to where they were. Back to being _happy_.

It’s Nick stood there when he opens the door. Alastair feels like there’s a lump of lead in his throat and it’s not just disappointment that it’s not Pietersen. There’s disappointment in himself for what he knows he had done, dread over what Compton expects now… shame, disgust, confusion. And nausea over the damned cologne.

The blonde smiles tentatively and gestures with one hand if he has permission to enter. “Can I?”

Alastair purses his lips and quickly glances behind the man. He can’t hear anyone, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there. There’s no assurance that they hadn’t heard them last night, or if they did, it was his call of Kevin’s name and therefore was no connection to Nick. Alastair wants to keep it that way. “Yeah,” he says and steps back, quickly shutting the door after Nick paces in.

Alastair remains stood by it, back against the mirror and regards Nick as the man stares back at him.

The South African turns to leans against the wall, long limbs hanging beside him. “Look,” he starts and cards one hand through his hair, “I don’t know what last night was—to be frank, I don’t _want_ to know, but, you looked so sad, Alastair,”

He wants to bite _how could he know, the lights were off_ but Alastair knows he did. He was beyond sad as he lay, letting Nick fondle is cock into an erection. He was desolate as he left. Any idiot could see that. But he doesn’t know what Nick is looking for, and doesn’t yet trust him enough to explain anything. There’s no explanation needed, anyway.

Quietly, Nick sighs and faces him, “Jimmy told me about Ke—I asked him!” Nick interjects himself when Alastair’s eyes narrow to a glare, thinking how typical it is of his friends to interfere. He’s still not happy that Jimmy so readily divulges his secret, and equally not pleased that Nick went running like some kiss-and-tell traitor.

“Jimmy told me about Kevin. And—I figured it out… Why you came to me. I’m like him, aren’t I? To you?”

Alastair averts his gaze to the dark carpet that he scuffs his shoes on. Shame bubbles up again. He hasn’t used someone in years. Not since he and Kevin were trying to avoid getting together, when Alastair was desperate to convince himself he didn’t need one man. To use Nick like that is cruel and selfish and not something a captain should do.

“If you need me like that, then… use me.”

Caught completely off guard, Alastair snaps his head back up. Wide-eyed, he moves his lips wordlessly. He doesn’t know what to think. Surprised that Nick would offer himself up like that – did he think it some way of assuring his position in the squad, of fitting in? Alastair is not even _considering_ accepting the offer, or even seeming to because he’s not like that, and if the temptation ever rises again he will rather just _not_.

And he’s trying to bring Kevin back. He can’t just give up all hope and settle for this imitation second-best.

“I won’t, Nick,” Alastair says quietly and jams his hands into his pockets. “But… thanks.”

Nick offers another smile that quickly fades. “I have to know though… is that the only reason you agreed to me joining the squad? Because I remind you of him?”

Alastair’s hands ball into fists and he doesn’t know if he should tell him the truth that it was the very opposite. It’s not an admission he should make, professionally. Confessing how bad he is as a captain, preparing to be so selfish… yet he wants to tell Compton that he’s decided to let him stay on his merit as a cricketer. His promise as an opener. In the back of his mind, Alastair finds it vaguely amusing, like this is the first time Nick’s not had to worry about his Grandfather being the reason he’s gotten places.

“No, Nick. We chose you because—”

A triple knock at the door.

It cuts Alastair’s words and concentration in two like a newly crafted sword. What was he saying? Does it matter? Kevin is here. He jumps up, reinvigorated like a toy with fresh batteries.

Nick sees the breath of life in him – one that no one has seen for so long. Perhaps he knows what’s happening but Alastair’s mind is somewhere else. He turns and opens the door. Maybe it’s too quick and too eager, but he doesn’t care. Let Kevin know how much he wants to see him. If it tells him without words of Alastair’s want and need, then it’ll mean they don’t waste so much time falling over their tongues.

Alastair should’ve spent the morning preparing himself for any sort of outcome, because the face he is greeted with is not quite the one he was expecting. Not that he really knew what to expect. He had hoped it would be something like the last he had seen of Kevin. Of glassy brown eyes and lips moving soundlessly. But time apart has hardened Kevin. He has spent time reinforcing the mask that Alastair had wheedled himself beneath, exposing the delicate interior which he had damaged in his haste to do what he, at the time, thought was right.

Maybe it _is_ still right… but it feels so wrong.

His lips are pulled tight beneath more facial hair than Alastair can ever recall him having, and his eyes are bored, demanding, and expectant. The shirt he wears is cut low around the chest, but it’s his own brand, so Alastair doesn’t read too much into it.

He doesn’t know what to do. What to _say_. He doesn’t want to act with similar indifference, but then he doesn’t want to open himself up only to get ripped to shreds. If he gives Kevin the slightest chance, the slightest inclination of the _need_ that has kept him awake all night then the malice of which the man is capable will surely show. The Captain will admit in the depths of his mind that he deserves it, though the rest of him screams that he’s been punished enough.

Stepping back, he holds the door open and that’s when he remembers that Compton is still inside. Kevin frowns, then smiles, brushing past Alastair as he holds his hand out. “Compton, right? Nick Compton?”

The blonde grins, delighted that such a Test Squad legend would know and recognise him, and confidently shakes that offered hand. “Yeah,”

Alastair stares for a moment as they share a few words. When they’re together, they’re nothing a like. Kevin is thicker-built, taller, darker, and more muscular with those tattoos that have always fascinated him. A couple years ago, he would’ve been thinking how much he wants to, and what it would take to have them both in one bed but now there’s just the shame of knowing that last night it had been Nick between his legs, but it wasn’t Nick in his head.

Now knowing that Nick _knows_ that just makes the entire thing even more awkward.

Those blue eyes glance at him for a second before returning to his fellow South African. “—I was actually just leaving. It was nice meeting you, Kevin.”

Alastair holds the door open and quietly utters a thanks that Compton doesn’t respond to. The second they are alone in the closed room, he wishes they weren’t. Only seconds ago Kevin was animated, warm and encouraging. He was all the things Alastair loved to see across the dressing room; passionate about his sport and supportive to those new to their level. And how Alastair misses getting caught staring, and be given some secret grin or smirk, and how sometimes he’d get up and purposefully stroll into the bathroom or the empty warm-down room only to be joined a minute later.

“You fucked him then?”

Looking up from where his eyes had fallen, Alastair frowns and purses his lips. He would be angry at the accusation if only he didn’t feel so guilty about the entire thing. If he had consciously wanted to have sex with Compton, if it was Compton he conscious wanted, then he would have sneered and asked why it mattered. Why it was the first thing Kevin brought up.

Did he bring it up out of sardonic loathing, or because it is something he still cares about? That he still wants Alastair to be _his_? How very badly he wants it to be that. How very badly he’d love for Kevin to go shout in Compton’s face for _daring_ to touch him, just so Alastair knows there’s still feeling there; that Kevin still cares as strongly as he did before.

Alastair chooses not to answer. He paces away from the door and into the seating area, walking past Kevin but making sure not to touch him. He is hyper-aware of the distance, hyper-aware of that cologne he sucks in. If it wasn’t for that damn fragrance then none of this would’ve happened. Alastair would’ve met Nick as Nick and formed a completely disconnected opinion of him. He wouldn’t be here now, almost ready to grovel.

He waits for Kevin to join him; to perch on the arm of the chair opposite his sofa like he’s not intending to settle for very long. Alastair doesn’t doubt him walking out at any given time and cautiously mulls over what to say. Yet he can’t deliberate – Kevin is just as likely to leave if he thinks his time is being wasted.

Finally, he sighs and presses his palms flat into his thighs. “Do you want to rejoin the squad?”

Kevin’s eyebrows slide closer together, stare intense and unblinking before he scoffs, folding his arms over his chest. “Is this some sort of joke?”

“No,” he replies. A part of him wants to reason what he _needs_ Kevin back, as that pivotal batsman, but he’s only _almost ready_ to grovel. “As Captain, I get to decide who I want.”

There’s not even a little sneer of amusement over the affirmation of his captaincy. He had always wondered how Kevin would react to it. There is a part that pondered jealousy, another that was supportive, proud… is the lack of bitter reaction suggesting the latter? Or just plain indifference?

“I want you in this team, Kevin. You have a good record against India. You know the game, their game. I need someone who can help out, support the newcomers, support _me_ ,” he finds himself leaning forwards, body language a little more open than he originally was aiming for. He leans back in the chair, trying to appear as casual as possible. It’s so _hard_ when every muscle and nerve and cell within him cries just to _touch_ Kevin; to cup his hands around that angled jaw to implore him with kisses and whispered words. “If you still want to play for England, if you still want to be a part of this team, here’s the chance. I want to win this series – _we_ need to win this series. You’re the best chance we have. You’re the best batsman, Kev.”

“There’s no _other_ reason?” he says, his face is angled away but one eyebrow looks raised and if Alastair isn’t mistaken, there’s a slight, wicked curve to his lips.

How he hates this side of the man. That side that makes it so hard to justify the way he feels about him. It’s so hard to see the Kevin he used to fall asleep with, play with and sit and kiss.  “What do you want me to say?” he snipes, throwing his hands in the air. Kevin’s mocking him, he knows. He’s searching for that reason he can only guess is there, but Alastair is desperately trying to hide.

In a way, he’s already given it away. If this was only about professionalism, about _England needing its best batsman_ , then Kevin would’ve been summoned by the Board, to convene at Lord’s, for a meeting with Andy and the Executives.

He’s silent for a while, expecting Kevin to have something more to say. He’s never quiet when he’s got an opinion or feels hard done by. The only time Alastair can remember him without words was their last meeting. When that thought lingers, and brings with it regret, he jerks his head to stare at the brightly coloured bromeliad next to the TV to his right.

That silence starts to weigh heavy. Any moment, Kevin could just get up and go and no words could bring him back. Sighing, because it’s the most stupid thing he’s done since giving in to that temptation he swore he never would and taking Kevin as a lover, Alastair scrubs his jaw with one palm. “I need you, Kev. I tried—God _knows_ I tried to forget you, but, I _can’t_ —”

“And Compton?” he glances at him out of the corner of his eye. That voice is bitter. He’s jealous. Kevin is actually jealous and it’s the most heart-warming thing Alastair’s felt in an era. “Is he an attempt to ‘forget me’?”

“No,” the confession is out before he can even think to stop it. He’s not quite sure he even would. There’s no point in pretending otherwise. Kevin knows that Alastair would find a man like Nick attractive and he’s already revealed his discomfort. “He… he actually,” Alastair scoffs at himself and shuffles in his seat, turning to lean against the arm and support his head as it falls into the hand he cards through his hair. “He’s actually the reason you’re here.”

Kevin finally turns completely to him again, confused and curious. Emotion swirls in his eyes and Alastair has to bite the inside of his lip to keep from smiling. Something so simple, still borderline negative, but more the _Kevin_ he knows. They’ve gotten through fights before and came out twice as strong. He lets himself hope, before he lets himself fall.

“He reminded me I can never forget you. How much I miss you and how I can never replace you.”

“Is that what he was then? Trying to replace me?”

Alastair slowly shakes his head. He doesn’t know if he wants to confess his true intentions, and what had been going through his head. But he doesn’t want to keep secrets. There’s no telling what Compton might say in the future and Kevin hates finding things out from third parties. “No,” he breathes out lowly, eyes closing, “as I said, I _miss_ you.”

He hears Kevin sigh deeply and scratch his chin or cheek. “How many times? Was it just him?”

It’s almost amusing. Sweet, in a way. A few months apart, a messy break-up, yet Kevin’s priorities remain protective, possessive. Alastair breaks into a chuckle, opening his eyes again and finding Kevin’s expression hardened. Like this is the make and break of the entire deal.

“Just him. Just once.”

Chocolate brown eyes search his deeply. They search for honesty and it hurts more than just a little to think that Kevin doesn’t trust him wholly anymore. Then again, the last lie Alastair had said had been the biggest, the _worst_ he could’ve spat – that he didn’t _care_ anymore; he didn’t _want_ , he didn’t _need_. He had said that whatever he and Kevin were, whatever they had, didn’t mean anything anymore.

“It was last night… and it finally made me realise what an idiot I was. I made a mistake in letting you go… can you forgive me?”

Kevin pushes himself up from where he sits and straightens out his shirt. When he starts walking, Alastair panics, thinking he’s leaving. He sits up, mouth open, but Kevin doesn’t take that turn towards the door, but keeps on approaching him. His face gives nothing away. He stands right up against his knees and absently, Alastair recalls times when he’d spread them, and Kevin would come closer. He’d lean down and they’d kiss and he’d pull Kevin down onto him and they’d just _kiss_.

“You cast me aside, Ali,” he says quietly, echoing that thought that what had transpired between him and Strauss and the dressing room had _nothing_ do to with them. His hands hang limp at his sides, but the Captain doesn’t miss how the fingers twitch, aching to touch him. “How can I trust you won’t again?”

Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, Alastair gingerly reaches out to take Kevin’s hands. They’re smooth and warm and twine instinctively around his. “No one can be that stupid. Not even me.”

Kevin continues to stare at him. He doesn’t exactly understand why, but the depth of it should be unsettling. Those eyes have never quite been so piercing, tearing through every layer to find something that Alastair either isn’t willing to say, or doesn’t know he actually feels. Consciously, he withholds nothing. Knowing that all Kevin really needs is honesty, Alastair just lets him find what he wants. Security, probably.

Alastair can’t give him a straight answer about never casting him aside again because of the deal they made at the very start. When it gets risky, they call it off. Alastair’s always felt like he’s got a better idea of what’s happening around them. He can play on the edge for fun, but he’s never reckless. Sometimes Kevin can be. It’s his nature. If he wants something he’ll take it, whether it’s hitting a ball for six or having sex with him; whether it’s hitting a ball for six when there’s a man on the boundary or having sex with him when his wife is down the corridor.

All Alastair has to offer is regret. And his desire that that day will never come.

Kevin pulls his hands free but immediately cups them around his jaw, holding him tightly and if he’s not mistaken, they’re shaking just the slightest bit. He smiles and hooks his fingers into the belt loops of Kevin’s jeans. Maybe it’s too forward, but the only thing that crosses Kevin’s face is a tiny quirk to his lips that makes Alastair think he’s just said how much he still feels the same as he always has.

“It’s been hell without you,” the South African finally says. Like a whisper, his thumbs rub against the corners of Alastair’s mouth and he doesn’t know which one he’d rather turn to kiss. “Knowing I should be here with you, but I was so stupid… I shouldn’t have let you push me away,”

Alastair fears that he’ll say that he _won’t_ let himself be pushed away again. It scares him how much he wants to believe it, and how warm that thought makes him, but also he’s terrified over what will happen if Kevin refuses to give him up. It scares him how he knows that if he lets himself believe it for a second, he’ll only suffer again because nothing means more to the South African than his family.

“I drove myself mad thinking about you. What you were doing, whether or not you missed me like I missed you but feeling like I shouldn’t…”

They could talk for an age over how stupid the last few months have been. How stupid Alastair is… and maybe they will. Maybe when they’re in bed, and never more happy to be adults able to put mistakes behind them.

Blinking slowly, Alastair licks his lips. Just the thought of being in bed with him again, warm and secure and content, makes his fingers tingle with anticipation. It’s so much more than the sexual desire and need he had tricked himself into last night. It’s a feeling so much deeper that he’s never been brave enough to name.

“Will you rejoin the Team?”

Kevin doesn’t answer immediately, but he doesn’t hesitate. It’s not even like he’s pondering his answer. His lips purse like he’s thinking, but they’re smiling at the corners. He slides his hands around, one into his hair and the other curls under his chin, keeping his face angled up. When he smiles, the white of his teeth is exaggerated by the black of his facial hair. “If my Captain will have me.”

“And us?” Alastair murmurs, suddenly very unsure despite everything. There’s always going to be some doubt. There’s always going to be some part of him that wonders how cruel Kevin can be – he had never thought him capable of creating such drama as he had – like all this, the minutes passed have been nothing but a game. He silences that silly voice in his head. Kevin’s not like that. His malice is not a surreptitious thing.

He’s unsure as Kevin leans down. He’s unsure up until the moment their lips meet. His eyes slide shut and he curls his arms around Kevin’s neck. He’s just about to start to pull him down when the South African breaks the chaste contact.

“I forgive you,” they kiss again and Alastair is desperate to deepen it. His lips part, but Kevin’s don’t. He feels them curve and frowns, wondering what the game is, and instantly disliking it. Yet, how he has yearned to be teased for so long. Kevin pulls away again, but only an inch. Again, Alastair is hyper-aware of the distance, tasting his breath as well as the cologne that now makes me smile to recognise. “Babe.”

The smile becomes a grin and with all his upper-body strength, Alastair pulls Kevin down on top of him. It’s an uncomfortable position, with the sofa’s rigid arm digging into his back and Kevin’s weight pushing him harder against it. He wriggles, spreading his legs to make room  for his lover and tries to lean up and shove the plush cushion he was sat against behind him. Kevin helps, making sure he’s at ease before pressing their mouths back together. This time their tongues meet with a fervour like nothing else he can remember.

Alastair leans his head back, baring himself physically and where he’s already given up everything else he has. Kevin surges forwards, hands grasping the sofa either side of his head and takes until they’ll be both sated. The rasping on his new beard is so odd, though nothing Alastair hasn’t felt before. He rubs his palm against it, hearing the man’s low mumble of something against his bottom lip, then trails it down his side to the hem of his shirt. His tentatively slides his fingertips beneath Kevin’s waistband.

Again, Kevin mumbles something, smiling, and diverts his mouth down Alastair’s chin to his throat.

As teeth rake pale pink lines down his skin, Alastair groans and rolls his head in the torment of deciding between what he wants and what they should do. Not quite a clear-cut line, perhaps more what he wants and what can be done later. “How long have you got?”

“As long as you need me.”

Running one hand through Kevin’s short hair, Alastair looks down and watches through half-closed eyes as the man kisses along the length of his collarbone exposed by his shirt. “Good, because I need to see Andy. And I might need to back-up.”

Kevin hums, pulling up yet not quite kneeling between his legs. His eyes are dark and hungry like a shark and his smile is just as toothy. “Must you _immediately_? I have a little something I feel like I need to reclaim first.”

Alastair bites his lip to keep from beaming as Kevin snakes his hand down between their bodies. The heel of that palm rubs against his groin whilst the fingers tease much lower. He’s absolutely bloody insane for thinking he could give this up. Even madder for thinking he could replace it, replicate it or trick himself into believing any other man to be this one.

Still, he should thank Nick Compton for what he unwittingly did. Thank him with a new bottle of cologne. A _different_ bottle of cologne.

 


End file.
